


Catharsis

by ben8615



Category: Dirk Gently's Holistic Detective Agency (TV 2016)
Genre: Angst, Crying, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, I wrote this in about half an hour, M/M, Nightmares, Project Blackwing (Dirk Gently), SO, Sharing a Bed, So yeah, That's all I got, and it's unbetad, but I'm gonna ask a friend to do the thing, dude I don't know how to tag shit?, enjoy, my appologies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-21
Updated: 2018-01-21
Packaged: 2019-03-07 14:58:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,361
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13437249
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ben8615/pseuds/ben8615
Summary: Todd had his fair share, of course. It had been a rough year, and there was no shortage of crap to fuel his subconscious. Many a night he had fumbled into wakefulness, Suzie Boreton’s laughter wrapping around him like barbed wire as he slithered backwards through time....But Dirk’s nightmares were worse, in their own way, because there was no sound, just the tightening of Dirk’s hand in Todd’s grip, the hushed gasps, and the endless, silent tears.---Or, Dirk is broken as heck, so why not have him cry it out? That's it. That's the whole story. You can all go home now.





	Catharsis

Dirk sleeps on his back, his hands pressed tight and the soles of his feet facing the opposite wall. Todd finds this strange, even a tad unnerving.

He’d read in some crummy magazine once, in the back of a van on the way to some other nameless gig, that the way you sleep said something about your personality.

The first night that Todd had pulled back the covers, and Dirk had slipped in beside him (and they still weren’t talking about what that was, what this _is_ ), it was an expected inevitability that they would morph into a tangled mess. Thus, when Todd blinked awake to find Dirk so still, soundless breaths shifting a tuft of hair on his forehead, something in his chest had tilted. Something had felt so very, very, abstractly wrong in a manner that only Dirk could produce.

But worse, far worse, were the dreams.

Todd had his fair share, of course. It had been a rough year, and there was no shortage of crap to fuel his subconscious. Many a night he had fumbled into wakefulness, Suzie Boreton’s laughter wrapping around him like barbed wire as he slithered backwards through time. 

He was a loud crier, and as such Todd would usually wake to Dirk hugging him, held together in Todd’s crusty single bed as Todd returned, drip by drip, to sanity.

It wasn’t pleasant, of course, but there was a catharsis to it, and the (not discussed, never discussed) company was more than appreciated.

But Dirk’s nightmares were worse, in their own way, because there was no sound, just the tightening of Dirk’s hand in Todd’s grip, the hushed gasps, and the endless, silent tears.

Dirk cried easily. Todd, Farah, Amanda and even the ever-expanding ranks of the Rowdy 3 were aware of this, but never once had Todd heard him make a sound.

At some point in his past, Dirk had mastered the art of silent agony, and, of course, Todd could guess at the reason behind such a talent’s necessity.

Tonight is one of those nights, when Todd had guzzled a little too much caffeine, when the day's events are chasing themselves around his mind, and when unconsciousness is just that side of reachable. He lays on his side, hand shoved under his bunched pillow, and eyes blinking at the placid face of his – his (something?) best friend.

It’s subtle, so subtle, but Todd’s thoughts are buffeted away as he notices the twitch in Dirk’s eyebrow, the tightening of his lips. Todd bites his own lip, feeling his face morph to take on Dirk’s expression. He pushes himself up, disentangling himself from the duvet, and, with a glance back at his _friend_ , pads towards the kitchen to grab a glass of water and flick the kettle on. 

By the time he returns, the tears have started in earnest, but still Dirk lays stiff, only the twitching in his fingers to give him away.

Todd sets down the glass on their (and when did it become their?) bedside table and drops to his knees, clasping Dirk’s fingers with his right hand and smoothing over his hair with his left.

“Hey, hey, Dirk, it’s okay, you’re okay,” he never knows what to say in these situations, not really. He’s started to get the hang of it, the times that he does catch this (and isn’t it serendipitous that they’ve managed to craft a routine amidst the madness), but he’s yet to know what to say to make it all better, make it go away.

He doubts the words exist, regardless.

Dirk’s head turns slightly, his brow damp under Todd’s palm, and then his eyes blink open, and his lips part, and he’s panting, but still so soundless and quiet and Todd _hates_ it, _hates_ how those blackwing sons of bitches managed to silence someone so blinding and brilliant and beautiful. It’s these broken moments that make him want to track down every last one of those goons and personally watch as the light drains from their eyes.

Not that he’s a violent person, not usually. But the past year has changed them all, and you could say he’s, well, somewhat desensitized. 

“It’s me, Dirk, you’re safe,” and Dirk’s glazed eyed finally find his own. Todd watches as more tears well up, watches his eyes squeeze shut and his lips tremble. Dirk pushes his free hand into the mattress, and Todd surges forward to help, shifting him until he’s sat up against the headboard.

His chest heaves, and Todd knows that feeling all to well, knows of drowning on dry land as your body refuses to cooperate with your brain.

He keeps himself crouched to the floor, knowing to toe the line between company and the personal space Dirk usually disregards. Dirk has Todd's hand in a death grip as he quietly heaves for air.

Todd dredges up an old melody, humming Thrash Unreal under his breath and circling his thumb, over and over, on Dirk’s wrist.

Dirk’s breathing is steadily losing its desperation, so Todd reaches over and presses the glass of water into his free hand, supporting it up to his mouth when he’s too shaky to do it alone. Dirk takes little sips until about half of it is gone, and then he turns his head away. Todd sets it back on the table.

Then he pushes himself to his feet, carefully gauging the moment of panic in Dirk’s eyes, and wanders around to his side of the bed, climbing in and settling shoulder to shoulder with his detective.

This close, he can feel as the tension drains out of his friend, and Dirk’s head finds its way to rest on his shoulder.

Todd flummoxes in silence for a moment, caught between empathy and awkwardness, but he bites the bullet and pushes forward.

“Wanna talk?” he asks, tilting his head to rest on top of Dirk’s. In this position, he can feel the shudder that wracks Dirk’s frame as he turns his face into Todd’s neck (in a _platonic_ and _friendly_ and – no. Now isn’t the time).

Usually he doesn’t, and that’s the end of it. Todd will fall back to sleep and by the time morning comes, Dirk is back to his usual self, jumping around the apartment and smiling with only the slightest edge of hysteria.

But it seems the universe has other plans for them tonight.

“It _hurt_ ,” Dirk mumbles, and the way his voice breaks over the word leaves Todd’s chest simultaneously too full and too empty, “it hurt _so much_. And I couldn’t – I couldn’t – I tried so hard but I – “

His voice stutters off, and Todd watches as he curls in on himself, whole gangly form pressed against Todd’s side.

Todd can feel his neck becoming damp but it’s still so goddamn quiet and he can’t fucking stand it.

He turns, gathers Dirk to him and rocks them, backwards and forwards. Dirk’s head is tucked against his chest, and Todd finds it darkly impressive that someone so substantial can make himself so small.

“I love you,” he murmurs, because Dirk hasn’t heard it nearly enough in his life, because they’re both hurting, and because it’s three in the morning and who the fuck cares.

“I know,” is the muffled response, and Dirk feels the following chuckle, but then he hears it, the sob. It’s there. It’s audible.

And something, this subtle balance they’ve been treading, shatters into a million pieces, and Dirk’s sobbing into his chest, harsh and wrecked and so long overdue.

Todd clenches his eyes against the pain, tears welling in sympathy, but he pushes them back.

It’s his turn to be strong.

He untangles Dirk’s hand from where it is tugging at his hair, and holds him as he keens, muffled but there, finally there.

Dirk is a whirlwind of beauty, and fascination, and a universal force in a way neither of them can understand, but tonight he is a man.

Dirk is a master of silent agony, but tonight he cries.

And as the stars start to disappear, and light creeps its way through Todd’s curtains, Dirk lifts his head.

And they smile.

**Author's Note:**

> So. Yeah. Hope you enjoyed. I need someone with far more skill than my to write something about tiny Svlad in Blackwing (or Blackbook back then?). Honestly, please. I just need someone to build a picture of what that was like, and for Farah and Todd to slowly discover where exactly he came from, and what he's been through.
> 
> Or, you know what? HOW ABOUT A SEASON 3? WOULDN'T A SEASON THREE BE NICE? HUH? HUH?!?!?
> 
> Also, italicsing in HTML annoys me. That is all. Have a good day.
> 
> Edit: Folks. Thank-you all so much for the support. I was having a really rough time when I wrote this, and I'm doing better now. Every comment and every kudo made me smile, so thank-you, thank-you, thank-you.
> 
> Also, if you like this, check out 'Give me one last kiss while we're far too young to die' by HolisticallyDirk. It supposedly got some inspiration from here, and the writer's a proper awesome human from what I can tell. Here's the link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13587222


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